


Of Arda, and the rise of a new Istari

by ZenzaoDLP



Category: Dresden Files - Jim Butcher, Lord of the Rings - J. R. R. Tolkien
Genre: Alternate Universe, Crossover, Gen
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2012-09-01
Updated: 2016-07-04
Packaged: 2017-11-13 07:49:43
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 4
Words: 7,300
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/501162
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ZenzaoDLP/pseuds/ZenzaoDLP
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>At the choice to pass on to his fate or remain in Uriel's service, Harry hesitates long enough for literal divine intervention, and he is given the chance to replace another Wizard, in another realm.</p>
<p>Spoilers for Ghost Story, Fellowship of the Ring(and onward).</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Stepping into Arda proper.

I looked at the door to the great mysterious beyond and felt my non-corporeal heart pound out a staccato beat against my chest. Uriel stood slightly to my side and behind me as I stared at it and the eternity within.

The memory of that south-bound train Carmichael had pulled me off of in the nick of time returned as I stared at the door, and the thought that I might be spending the rest of my here-after burning for my sins gave me enough of a pause to breath a short sigh.

_It shouldn't have been this hard_.

I should have just swallowed, reached out, and pushed the door open.

Instead I sighed shakily, turned a half-step to face Uriel, and asked, "This is really it, huh? No more second-chances, no more convenient archangels whispering into ears and altering the circumstances, just the one-way trip _forward_."

I expected him to nod in his vaguely warm fashion and gesture me onward or back to his side proper, as if he were saying _get on with it or stick around, son_ , but Uriel did not do either of these things.

He lowered his head to one shoulder, as if listening to an unseen speaker, and smiled.

I stood and waited.

After several particularly long seconds he looked up at me again.

"There is _one_ new option. I'm sure it would be right up your alley, after-all, creating a third circumstance when the initial two are not to your satisfaction, and would certainly forestall _this_ decision for... potentially _years_."

Uriel pointed with his chin back in another direction as he turned from the door and began to pace away.

I quickly swallowed the lump in my throat at the unexpected change and turned to follow him.

"The _spirit of intellect_ that you spoke with briefly at several recent points mentioned to you the true _vastness_ of our Father's creation, yes?" He asked me when I caught up.

I nodded mutely. I didn't want to say something that might disrupt where this was going.

"Then you know that the earth outside of the Nevernever is just one of many - that is, that it is the one most focused toward reality, and that others reside within the breadth and width within that dimension."

That wasn't quite how Bob had put it, but it was near enough for me not to question the apparent gift horse.

"A circumstance has arisen toward the deeper end of the realms, and a _wizard_ has been slain before his time in the middle of a struggle for hard-earned peace throughout that land. Would you take his place and guide as well as fight for the time that he has lost, until tyranny is overthrown?" Uriel finally asked.

Definitely as vague as I was used to, for that could be any number of worlds, of a near infinite myriad of possible people I would be replacing.

But compared with the enormity of the imminent decision pressing down on me, I was willing to take a chance on living again.

"Yes," I answered.

Uriel's teeth shone as he laughed lightly, which did not reassure me.

"Oh, Harry. You will enjoy this, as much as any youth raised in this day and age might, compared to a wizard far older and rigidly confined. I hope you remember your _Quenya_."

"My what?"

A moment after uttering those two words and he reached up at a speed nearly beyond my ability to sense to press a hand against my forehead, and I fell into a blank slumber, and awoke many, many leagues beyond even the edges of Faerie in the distant reaches of the Nevernever...

* * *

The first sense I had was an awareness of my surroundings, and then the nakedness I felt within them, a vulnerability that I was unaccustomed toward even during my latest session as a wandering soul.

I felt as if here, wherever here _was_ , I could be felt not merely by the spiritual community, but the very nature about myself, and that others who were yet still alive and breathing would likewise look upon my self and view me for what and who I was.

When I opened my eyes, I was still the same as when I had spoken with Uriel, though the surroundings were far different; a vast and shadow-casting mountain lay before me, and the sounds of drums still echoed out from within its walls clearly.

Stretched out across the land to either side were trees and a long beaten path. Then those who were beating said drums emerged from a gash in the side of the mountain and I glimpsed the first in a long line of creatures, short, shallow, muck-and-tarred-skin black beneath the armaments worn.

They were not all that distant from the Goblins of the Erlking, if I felt like being charitable. Swords and arrows and shields, so on and so forth, hung across their bodies in scabbards and quivers and over forearms, and when they spoke the tone of their voice was pugnacious and souring upon the air.

"Fool! Ape-spawn!" One of their kind cursed another in a rough tongue that I could barely recognize. "You ought be stretched and whipped a thousand times by the Balrog's own thong!"

If I had blood, it might have chilled.

_Balrog_? _Quenya_? The puzzle pieces slid quickly into place as memories were awoken out of my younger years. _Uriel, you son of a bitch. Don't you dare tell me this is Middle-earth, and if it is..._

My thoughts flickered off as another realization hit me- and it truly sucker-punched me, to be honest, as the meaning behind his words came together.

_Gandalf's dead and I'm his replacement,_ I thought quickly.

Which meant that what I was looking at, and would in turn soon be looking upon _me_ , were genuine, honest-to-Eru _Orcs_.

_Of Mordor._

_Oh, stars and stones._

I leaned over and pressed a hand to my forehead as the other rested across one upraised knee, feeling a sudden surge of emotions that could, at best, be referred to as a nerdgasm.

I swear, if I was in my living body, all the blood would be swelling below at the sheer excitement coursing throughout my veins.

I was brought out of my mile-a-minute thoughts as one of the Orcs swore and drew his sword with a hiss, staring with beady yellowed eyes at my form, and having rather rapidly refreshed my memories of the stories, of the events within the books, I actually smiled.

It was said, after all, that the _Istari_ had veiled themselves in forms akin to the _Atani_ , of men, and even old Sauron himself as a Maia proper when he set foot herein had not forsaken such an option even if he chose to look young and full of powerful life rather than aged and wiser, as the rest of those who followed after him did.

I knew it would be easier here to accomplish that act if I had the proper resources to utilize, and I had learned a remarkable degree about utilizing my resources and limited influence on the world about myself in the time since Jack Murphy had dropped me off at Mortimer's house days ago.

I drew in my will and my breath, and all of the memories I possessed about the series, of this world I now dwelt within, and my intentions all the same, and as I rose to my feet, I exhaled the simple commandment.

" _Cloak and Be,_ " I uttered.

Power thrummed from beneath my skin and spread outward and upward, covering my body like sheets of liquid flame, so that a warm-weight akin to being underwater pressed in upon my consciousness and mind and every nerve I was suddenly, and blissfully, aware of once again.

My will gathered and settled into place across my flesh in the usual choice of raiment and cloth, if accurate to the period and setting, so that I was clad in black from ear to boot.

In my main hand my old, worn staff formed once more, and dangling from its neck lay my mothers silver pentacle pendant and the ruby therein.

My first breath was a rush of sudden life, and I threw my head back and expelled it in a shout of exuberance, in a roaring-laugh of near-delirious joy, and echoing challenge all the same.

Uriel was right; I _would_ enjoy this, and dearly so.

The Orcs gnashed their teeth together at the sight of my newly gathered form, and without the Balrog at their aide, they were reluctant indeed to stroll under the noon-sun and face me.

"Come on, then, your dirt-licking sons of the mud! Return to your cavernous cradling burrows, hollows and holes, or stand firm and fight me," and here I paused in the middle of my declaration, and considered what I would call myself here, before the words spilled over my lips as if guided but no less true in their own way, "for I am _Dresden the Black_ , and I reap fire from the heavens and the earth, and consume all that stand in opposition with might unseen since the age of Gothmog, high lord of the Balrogs!"

The whistle of many an arrow being drawn back and slung forth pierced the warm air in response and, almost without thought, a concentric silver oval-shield materialized before my body and caught them, cast them aside to my left and right.

Fear appeared in their eyes, then.

They had faced down one Wizard this morn, and lost their greatest ally for it, and now anew came a second that could throw down their weaponry so easily. Moria had lessened their resolve to face such a foe, and I knew that had they been the Uruk-hai of Isengard, the challenge would have carried further, but these weak-spined wretches turned tail and fled rather than risk proving my words any truer.

To be sure I thrust my staff forward and crowed victoriously, " _Fuego!_ " and sent a low surge of flame scorching up and into the hole in the rock face they had emerged from, so that the squeals and groans of pain reflected down the way toward me.

It felt glorious to be _alive_ and able to distribute my spells wholly once again, and I couldn't help but grin as my thoughts turned toward the Fellowship, and Saruman, and all of the events that lay ahead.

"Looks like I had better get a move on before they finish trekking down to Parth Galen and splinter apart therein," I said to the air, and turned from the mountain to stride across the path.

* * *

**End of Chapter One.**


	2. Heir of Isildur, well met.

The leaves crunched beneath my boots noisily as I approached the fields of Parth Galen, and the Company ahead. It felt good to have my staff in hand once more, and the old wood creaked pleasantly beneath my fingers as it tapped against the ground.

"Hail, Aragorn son of Arathorn," I called out across the distance yet separating us. I knew that he, and the rest of the men of Númenor, were still capable of truly Listening. He could also See quite clearly even that which should not have been visible to mortal eyes, and while it was not quite akin to my Wizards Sight, it was still a valuable tool for a living man to possess.

My voice sailed upon the wind and, mere moments later, he paused in his forward trek to look back and investigate, to confirm what he could only have doubted he had heard.

In a moment he turned away and spoke swiftly and not a little hastily to the others, and both Aragorn and Boromir turned back to face me together. Frodo, Sam, Merry, and Pippin rushed further ahead with a very reluctant Legolas in quick stride beside, but Gimli did not join them.

The dwarf drew his axe and stomped up beside the men, and Aragorn spared him only a sharp and short flicker of the eyes and the barest tilt of the head before looking back to my form.

It took a moment for me to realize why they were fleeing my coming, and I frowned at my own foolishness; for why should they not run, when a man swathed in black to such a degree crept behind their footsteps, as like to the Nine as could be despite the few discrepancies between they and I?

I stopped in the middle of my next stride and planted my staff solidly, whipping up a slow wind to carry my voice and then calling over toward them, "Hail again, Aragorn son of Arathorn, and Boromir son of Denethor, and Gimli son of Glóin."

The wind carried my message clearly to the three, and Aragorn called back after but a moment, when the current had turned from them. "It is good that you have halted, stranger, for another step more and we would have forsook words in place of arms," he said mildly.

"To what is your purpose, haunting our steps? Is it not enough that you have felled our companion, at the cost of your own servant in the process? Do you seek to delay us still as the armies of your slaves rally and give chase? Speak! and be quick of it!"

I tilted my hat back so they could see my face and the open expression there. _They think I'm old Saruman in disguise, then, if not one of the Nine. Not much I can do about that to convince them otherwise,_ I thought before nodding once, and then I lowered my staff to the ground and knelt to set my hat upon the pendant.

Evocation was not a strong-suit without a conduit to focus my magic through, but I could still perform it if necessary, and I hoped that letting go of the object of power would set their concerns to rest for a few moments at least.

"I seek to aide the Company on their unspoken quest, decided as it was upon Rivendell some days prior ere this hour passed, for I am neither Saruman the fallen, once the White, nor a servant of the great eye or enthralled by its powers," I answered him at length.

"I am of the kin of Olórin, and Curunir. I am _Istari_ , what you would call the Wizards, and I am Dresden the Black," I paused to consider my words carefully, for that connotation held much in the way of darkness during these days.

After a moment of silence I decided what I needed to.

"Yes, I am Dresden the Black, after the same manner as Gandalf the Grey, Radaghast the Brown, Pallando and Alatar the Blue, and as I have said, Saruman the-once-White."

I raised one hand palm upwards as I muttered, " _Flickum Bicus,_ " and snapped my fingers so that the tiny flame surged before them in clear view of the other men and dwarf.

"I command the flames of Arda and consume all who stand opposed, choosing to match the strength of fire to fire, with wit as I may, and I have come at this time at the hastening of my Vala from beyond the seas," I answered his questions and looked up from the dancing heat.

It was all _technically_ accurate. Not wholly _true_ , per say, but more or less valid.

"I know much that has happened, and may guess yet further still what is to come, for I have been blessed with the gift of foresight and forethought to some degree. Will you hear me out, son of Arathorn and son of Denethor, and of course son of Glóin?" I asked, not feeling too bad about the twisting of my words.

Boromir drew his sword after but a moment, and he spoke quickly to both of the others in a low tone so that his words were not carried back by the wind toward me.

It was obvious he wanted to have no part with my aide or otherwise, though, and Gimli seemed to have a like-mind as he fingered his axe haft- I could guess indeed that he wanted revenge for what had befallen his people in Moria.

Aragorn rested a hand to Boromir's own and spoke something softly in return, but the heir to the steward of Gondor would not be pacified. He stepped forward and brandished his blade at my form, and shouted back.

"I at least shall hear no more, foul Wizard! Take thine false appearances and false promises back to Isengard where they belong!" He cried out heavily.

If I had been younger, even in so much as I was before being killed on the Waterbeetle, I might have answered his tone with anger in return and done something irrationally stupid.

But I was calmer, and less quick to strife and to strike out, and in this world where none of my enemies dwelt I could truly take the time to measure out my reactions and words.

I clenched my hand shut and dispersed the flame there, and dropped down to sit on the ground entirely. "Go then where you will, heir of the steward, but be wary! There are greater dangers aloft throughout Amon Hen than any of you expect, despite my warning gesture to the horde preparing to set out in hunt of the Company from Moria's long shadow, and an arrow may move quicker than mortal men can evade."

Boromir's expression moved swiftly toward his anger, but Aragorn intervened again, and this time I had no trouble understanding his words.

"Be still a moment and think!" He advised, matching his gaze to his fellow man's. "The earth does not tremble with the might of the gathered Orcs of Moria, not as it did when we fled that domain. Indeed, their trampling is confined beyond and behind our current passage." He said, staring out over the way behind me for a moment to confirm his own words.

Gimli took a step forward to join them better. "I agree with Boromir, lad. I've heard of no such Wizard in all of our recordings, and I rather doubt the elf will have any better." He stated firmly.

Aragorn sighed and shut his eyes for a moment. "Will all sense and ration abandon us upon this day? Verily! so be it, if a challenge is what you desire so, than step back and rest, for strong though we may be together there is strength yet-unbidden within the Sword that was Broken and is Not. I fear that strength alone is all which might compete against fell magic, and I would not sacrifice your lives in this unnecessary strife!" He barked at them when each looked quite ready to refuse.

I didn't stir from my position on the ground, but I felt a thrill surge through my body as the king-of-Gondor-in-exile, the heir to the throne truly, crossed the distance between us at a rapid stride.

His hand settled upon the hilt of Andúril, and a vision spread before my eyes as the clouds parted and a ray of sunlight sparked across his nearly-shadowed form, so that for a moment I saw not merely Michael, but Shiro reflected within his appearance.

If any man from another realm could have wielded the Swords of the Cross, it was truly Isildur's heir as he approached me now.

"I would not take arms against you, son of Arathorn," I told him quietly when he had at last stopped several feet beyond my spot. "My enemy is but the Eye, within its cold Tower, and those who serve beneath _him_ be it willingly or otherwise at this point. If you think it wise to draw Andúril against me I will not oppose it, and indeed I would welcome the touch of that legendary blade if it were otherwise so presented." I said quietly and firmly.

Our eyes looked upon one another and the connection of a Soul Gaze established itself- only to be reflected, cast aside and denied by some inner will and wellspring of strength he possessed- no doubt the fortitude that had allowed him to throw aside Sauron's black will when he looked upon the Palantir properly some weeks from now.

He drew the hilt out a few inches without flinching, though I couldn't exactly say the same, as I blinked and leaned back in surprise; it felt like the utter denial that the Guardian Angel serving beneath Uriel had performed, when I chose to see it with my Wizards Sight.

"You may have tried to conquer my spirit, _Istari_ ," he stated softly as the blade rose further still, "but I have taken it unto myself and reversed your spell; and lo! I have seen some glimpse of what you are, and of what you represent. You are not of Arda, not wholly, and nor would I claim you to be that which you state; but I have seen the Vala you proclaim and in him is the fire of Ilúvatar. To what reasons you have come are not clear to me- but I am assuaged of your intentions to aide the Fellowship," he said slowly.

I exhaled in relief and smiled loosely before he drew the sword in full, and Andúril sliced a thin line across my left cheek while my guard was down. I hissed lowly as the absurdly sharp edge bit through my gathered flesh and spilled faint dews of blood across the grass.

He stared a moment more before sheathing his sword and leaning down, gripping my right hand and drawing me back to my feet. "Rise, Dresden the Black," he intoned. I gripped my staff and drew it upright as well, recognizing the reason for his action even if it burned irritably, and I shuffled my staff to the crook of one elbow so that I could press the same hand against my cheek.

"Look and see, my companions! This battle has been fought and the stranger bleeds as truly as you and I, were we dealt such a cut. What suspicions as I held are allayed at this moment, and I ask that you as well set them aside ere we go forward." Aragorn called back to the other two.

* * *

**End of Chapter Two.**


	3. Clash before the river

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Things become tenser still between Dresden the Black and the Fellowship.

Boromir stood firm as Aragorn and I approached, suspicion not only present in the hard lines of his face, but outright scorn. "Hail I say to you, son of Denethor and Glóin, thrice and for all this morrow," I said at once, lingering not long upon the man's distrust for instead I felt it right to kneel and present myself for the dwarf's approval.

Boromir could be checked by the Dunedain at my side, and they had passed through Gimli's long forsaken homeland only to find it in ruination and flame, host to an evil that few are aware of in modern times. An injustice if ever there were one, and Gandalf had given his life to see the Fellowship to safety. For that alone I could not hold myself back.

"To what fate has done to you and yours in Moria long behind, I offer condolences and more, for I have it not only in my power to fix, mayhap, but only the pressing matter of time that denies my offer to you now." Gimli's stony features could have chiseled yet further, almost to match the man beside him, and I spoke thus, "Yet when we've the freedom, when this journey has seen itself through to the very end, I offer you my aide as _Istari_ in this further venture, son of Glóin: Moria shall be renewed. If it does not gleam as the white walls of the White City, I offer you my staff and knowledge to make it so ere I wander back from Arda, be thus in yonder months or many years. Your home shall be renewed!"

I could but feel the sneer which graced good Boromir's expression next. Indeed, his words were not to be unexpected, given such a vast and terrible claim. I might of as well have sworn to march forward into Mordor and tear down the black tower of Barad-dur with my own hands.

"For pity's sake," he exclaimed, "do you not see the silver tongue that flashes in the light? Do you not hear the honeyed lies clear as this winding horn I carry?"

Gimli met my gaze without flinching. He buried his axe in the ground between us with a mighty huff. "How my heart longs for the fulfillment of this dream, Wizard, that I should be denied twice is all the crueler!" He looked up from his axe and spoke again, "But for time, aye, you would cleanse the wicked infection, rebuild the desolates stairs and walls! what more might you claim? To repopulate the kin long dead? I fancy that you should gild every facet within sight!"

I let out my breath in a slow exhalation. It was not to be, in this moment, that I made up for the woes on Gimli's mind. It would have to be enough that I had made him this offer, and should it pass that I and he lived to speak of it again, I would prove my intentions true then.

But for now... for now this meeting had taken too long already. For now the terrible orcs of Isengard would be closer to the little folk and Legolas than we were.

For now, I realized, I had let my ego supersede my knowledge.

I rose at once. "Come! I fear that our parlay has narrowed the walls of imminent fate all the tighter on this day! We shall speak again of Moria, and of Gondor, if arrows do not sunder our lives in the minutes ahead!"

Aragorn sensed the urgency of my tone. He sheathed Anduril not unkindly, and as I set my hat upon my head and took my staff into hand once more, I repeated my earlier incantation to drive forth a wind. "Be wary what you say, Dresden the Black, for I do not portend to black omens on this grim day! but yes, come!" this he directed to his allies. "I trust the time ahead little, now come!"

And Boromir and Gimli answered his cry. With doubt, with frustration, they met his pace in but a handful of beats, and we four raced across the remaining fields of Parth Galen, the wind at our backs and blood in the air ahead.

-(Istar i mor _)-_

Orcish blood painted a wicked tale before us. Severed limbs, as cut only by a short sword at halfling height, decorated the river front. Floating corpses hung pinned to the shores by arrows both elvish _and_ black.

But of the little folk or the elf himself, there was no immediate sign, save perhaps in the dirt and the mud roused in the fighting. I knew, then, that I had failed in part; for now the Fellowship had been sundered, as it was always meant to be. And if the hobbits were now united under Legolas' far-seeing eyes, then of that some small measure of good had come of my interference. Whether that meant good or ill toward the end of their journey I could not yet say, for events in Gondor had swayed at the coming of proud Wingfoot, to borrow from the Rohirrim, and Meriadoc and Peregrin, that must now go on their own way, and what of Gollum and sad Faramir? What of the march through the swamps of death and the long, winding climb to that horrid nest guarded by Shelob in the towering shadows beside Mordor?

"By the Lady Galadriel," Gimli put to voice first the thoughts that ran throughout their heads. Aragorn bent to read the murkish trail, though surely his eyes knew the truth; yet, once more, I could not say with certainty that he did decipher this riddle cleanly.

I looked ahead, into the rolling hills, while Boromir swore. The ferocity of his oaths were sharp as the sword whose mark still wept at my cheek, and loud enough to echo amidst the trees. "Hark! have I not proclaimed this villain's hand in our misfortune? Have I not called this trust blind and foolish? Agent of Saruman I name you, Black Wizard! southron worshiper and lord of lies!"

He drew. I turned at the rasp of his sword, and there I saw not just the man but the orc in the shadows, drawn forward by Boromir's brash tone.

"Nay, Wizard! I shall not be made mockery of for naught!" He strode toward me then, and then it was that I had to make my choice; for if I raised my staff to decry the arrow notched and rising, would I not be inciting my reluctant allies? Or would I be better served to grapple with proud Boromir and wrest him from fate's intended end, with my trust placed to my enchanted garb to blunt the blow of blade and missile? Sunlight glinted tauntingly across the scene of anguish!

Bright silver glittered from my clutching hand. _That is how._ It came to me as the orc grinned with malicious delight, messy fingers twitching, and Boromir charged obliviously toward his doom. Aragorn shouted, a command lost in the haze that followed.

The decision was made. I thrust my hand, staff and all. " _Forzare!_ "

Time hung in the beat that followed. I watched the steward's loyal son harden his features, beginning to duck his head beneath the level of my gesture, yet his body tumbled against his will to the left as my spell grasped him mercilessly and flung. The edge of that poisonous arrow slit the hair from over his ear, so close was my response, and then it struck the middle of my chest like, well, a heavy bolt flung from a bow. The wind exploded from my lungs, and as I hunched over in that old and familiar pain, at once gasping for air, my feet went out from under me, and I fell to my knees, free hand clutching at the shaft digging into my ribs, main hand still about my tilting staff.

"Gah... dammit...!"

Aragorn had taken his own feet, surging forward. Gimli rushed at his side. I could almost see the scene unfolding ere fate delivered her vicious stroke- one must die upon this river front, be it the King-in-exile or his steward's son, or even a dwarf.

I could not let that come to pass.

_No_. I _would not_ let that come to pass!

I rose, staff gouging in the soil. The splintered arrow fell to my feet. They did not see that the forestry ahead concealed many more Isengardians than but the one to seek Boromir's life despite my warnings. They could not _know_ , having seen the bodies left behind by Legolas' archery, how _few_ orcs had been slain from the greater body sent for this task.

Boromir looked with hard eyes even now between us as he climbed to his feet, torn between his fury at losing the One Ring for ever from Gondor's grasp, at my aid, unintended though it be, in seeing that goal set down by his father's secret order to now never be fulfilled, and his oath owed to aid his fellow Fellowship. He measured the foe at his back and found it sated by Aragorn and Gimli. He faced me with a terrible glint in his eye. "Yet more trickery, Wizard! No living creature may endure a feathered shaft without blood as proof of his wound!"

_This man holds too much pride._ I gathered my will, the frustration that burned like acid in my gut, the pity that Boromir could not see beyond his own clouded judgment, the taste of anger brought up by the pain in my sternum, and that oldest companion, _defiance_ , that any of them should falter to the machinations of Saruman or Sauron this day, fools or otherwise.

I raised my staff, crying out, " _V_ _ _entas cyclis_!_ " Great gales of wind shook the forestry, gathering the white-hand-marked Isengardian's further up the hill and smashing them together, the resultant mesh of armor and flesh flung then down the hillside like awful boulders. "Fall back!" I shouted. "Do not rush toward an end before your due!" Even as the words left my mouth I felt the bitter taste of foreknowledge- if we all lived, that message would be turned back upon me as warning not to Aragorn and Gimli, but to the orcs. _So be it._ I turned my attention to the spell, holding my ground as Boromir strode forward with a limp to his right leg, sword taut in his hands.

Gondor's true ruler slowed. He watched with amazement, and maybe some hesitancy, eyes searching through the shaking foliage and marking the horde ahead. "Wait!" he ordered to Gimli. He looked back upon me, at last noting the absence in his ears of his fellow man's bootsteps coming toward them. "Boromir!"

I exhaled as the would-be-steward swung.

I had tested bullets, I had taken the claws of ghouls and vampires. I had proven even an arrow in flight could not dent my garb.

Yet a sword?

If only.

If only it had been that Boromir struck at my body, instead of the length of wood in between my hands. My spell died as my staff was rent in twain, and he gathered his breath to swing again.

* * *

**End of Chapter Three.**


	4. Blood and oaths.

Without my staff I had limited access to magic that I felt comfortable in using. But Boromir once more underestimated his situation- he believed my magic to be irrevocably linked to the wood-working as it had been, whole and hale, for had I not held it in the very hand from which I had thrown him to the ground mere moments prior? And, growing up at his father's knee, had he not learned that simple fact with the coming of Gandalf and the restrictions that proud Denethor set at his doorstep?  
  
And so as Boromir rose upright, he believed himself secure. "For Gondor!" he crowed as he hefted his mighty sword once more.  
  
I had little more time to spare ere the stroke was done, for good or ill outcome. " _Forzare_!" The amount left to my rings was paltry compared to the larger force that came before, yet not nothing, either. Enough to turn his wrist aside ere he could swing downward, and strong a man as he may be, his weapon was a stolid hand-and-a-half sword, and its weight then was beyond his grasp to endure. It tumbled from his shaken fingertips and cleaved the mud between his feet to the hilt.  
  
"What deception is this?" Boromir cried in much shock. "Have I not broken your power? What dominion have you left?"  
  
"This," I answered as I abandoned the piece of staff still held in hand. And I stepped into his open guard and punched him across the mouth. I'd like to think that I still had a decent haymaker, though I've been out of practice for a while now.  
  
The heir to the steward stumbled back in utmost disbelief as blood spilled from his ruptured lower lip, and in the light his blood glistened red and unctuous. He raised his hand to his lips and stared at the liquid dotting his glove, and a fury came over the man then, well and true and full of a hatred that I believe he had only ever shown at the Battle of Osgiliath previously.  
  
Yet I spoke before he could, nor take further action.  
  
I stared back grimly and said thus; "Fool, I name you, Boromir eldest child of Denethor. I have warned you against undue haste not once but twice this morn, and look!" Though my knuckles felt bruised from the blow I pointed beyond his back, where even now Gimli and Aragorn were returning instead of marching on to face the troops exposed. "What you take for a few soldiers is in fact dozens, perhaps as many as four score, and that I could smote them had I still my full power I would. Yet now we must face this threat otherwise and trust that fate will be more merciful than the orcs afield."  
  
Boromir spat as blood pooled in his mouth, that he could then speak in response. "You are gifted truly of guile and deceit, Wizard." His own hands clenched into fists, but though his rage was indeed a grand thing, perhaps my punch had at last shaken the certainty of his will, enough then for my words to slow his thoughts, and for the remaining Fellowship present to return to his side.  
  
"Aye, what a fine mess." The dwarf turned the haft of his axe between his hands and stared at me shrewdly. Aragorn examined the scene and his brow bent at the red shining between his fellow man and myself, the sword in the mud beside my ruined staff. I could not infer an exact emotion from his expression then, but he placed a hand upon Boromir's shoulder, and they two men looked long into one another's gaze while behind the orcs began to rally.  
  
I knew that to speak now could change much. Boromir hung on a precipice built from his father's teachings and the shadow of Mordor ever bearing down upon Minas Tirith, and not by my hand would he be risen to shelter, though I should offer it in open faith. He would sooner slip then clasp my fingers, and nothing I said would change that. But his king-in-exile? It was Aragorn who would pull Boromir up, if any of us could. So I held my tongue and crossed my arms, and looked at the horde beyond as they clamored with a ruckus.  
  
And as the seconds passed Aragorn tried.  
  
"We have known each other long under the name of Thorongil, my steward-prince, though it be in the final years of Ecthelion II your father's father when I served the fleet of Gondor. He trusted my advice and my judgment afield and at sea, and now I ask of you to renew that trust, for we have not the time for this quarrel. We swore an oath together in distant Imladris and though the means have traveled beyond us to give full aid, the vows remain intact so long as you, I, and Gimli still draw breath. I am not Frodo, but I ask of you - do I still have your sword?"  
  
"No," Boromir answered softly around the blood in his teeth and clinging to his tongue. I tensed as he stepped forward, bent, and wrapped his fingers around the hilt waiting there, and as he rose he drew it forth with a wet squelch. But he did not swing his blade toward me a third time, and turned toward Aragorn, and went to his knee then with his head bowed. He measured the blood in his mouth wherever mud clung to steel, and continued when at last his mouth was empty, "For this sword was promised to a halfling, and I have sullied it. May this blood wash away that taint." He then drew a dagger and held it toward Aragorn. "But you have my dagger, and my strength, and my life, so long as it shall last, Thorongil, and king."  
  
Minutes ago I could not have predicted such an outcome. I looked upon him and saw the tension that still held his shoulders and spine, and if I could guess it would be that he still carried his fury, yet for now it had lessened, and the merit of that wroth was short against the valors and values that had brought him to this point across his life. It had just taken a little reminding of what mattered.  
  
Gimli grumbled about his choice of deception, but Aragorn's expression now had softened, and he placed a hand to Boromir's own that held the dagger and drew him upright now as he had me in the fields of Parth Galen. "I will guard this trust and your life as I have my own." An archer ahead nocked and aimed. I stepped forward and thrust my shield bracelet out and that missile fell aside harmlessly. They three turned toward the rising slope and the foul creatures descending, and the dúnedain resumed his battle-ready pose. "Now let us put an end to this threat! Dresden the Black, will you assist our plight?"  
  
"Of course," I answered simply.  
  
The orc who had fired his shot abandoned the bow in light of its futility and shook a short but broad sword as he neared. No match for Boromir's, yet dangerous nonetheless.  
  
"Then do what you may to stem their flow, and we shall do the rest."

-(Istar i mor _)_ -

  
As the sun sank that evening, the Uruk-hai of Isengard had been routed. It was a long, tiring affair, made little better by the powerful creatures' resilience and stamina. I have contended with demons and vampires who could have learned a lesson from Saruman's elite troops. When their last soldier lay bifurcated the river nearby had darkened around the corpses and the constant flow of life's blood.  
  
It was a miracle that the Fellowship-three had survived. Wounded, to which I was eminently grateful that their injuries were not life-threatening, but alive. In the aftermath of the combat we had searched deeply to be certain the last orc was vanquished, and then set about cleaning up from the grime where the river still waited clean. I was supposed to be gathering firewood, but my legs had gone weak since stepping into the Anduin, and now some few minutes since, I sat down upon a downed tree and ran my hands through my hair in the small campsite we had agreed upon. For the first time since stepping into Arda the weight of my existence felt strained. When I looked down to my fingertips in the fading sunlight, I could see the ground underneath.  
  
_Why_?  
  
So simple a question. So many possible answers. I did not like to think of myself here as I had been on my own earth when I first cast _Be_ , but it could not be denied that the power which made up my physical form had diminished. Perhaps it was the running water. Perhaps I had tapped too deeply into my own reserves without a staff as focus to my magic. Or perhaps it was something else.  
  
What I knew was that I had to be careful for now. I wasn't much more invulnerable within Middle-earth than I was used to being back in Chicago.  
  
I rose wearily and used my toe to scuff a rough circle around a small pile of brush nearby. It had been years since I worried over my element of choice. When I was satisfied it would do I knelt, held my hands forward, and murmured, " _Flickum Bicus_ ," with a tiny investment of willpower and energy. A few embers sparked to life as I felt the backs of my fingernails shave that much closer to the ether. I breathed out hard and the embers swirled into a quiet fire less than a foot across by tall.  
  
Then I sat back down and closed my eyes. I could just make out the shape of the flames through the lids. _This isn't optimal, but… it may pass_. _It_ should _pass_ , _once I've rested_. I had arrived in Arda as a naked spirit, and I hadn't vanished back to Uriel's side. But would that still be the case now? Would I become like Sauron had when the sea flooded in and destroyed Númenor? Maybe.  
  
I sure as hell wasn't interested in finding out soon.

* * *

**End of Chapter Four.**


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